Bella’s POV
The silence in the mansion felt thick. Not oppressive—just… aware. Like the walls themselves were listening, watching, waiting. Bella had lived in many houses, but none like this. This one didn’t feel dead. It pulsed—slowly, softly—with restrained energy.
And Damian Wolfe moved through it like a man who knew every pulse, every shadow.
She sat at the edge of the chair, watching him lean against the counter with unnerving calm. He hadn’t looked away from her once, like he was waiting to see whether she’d break or bloom in this strange new world.
When she finished eating, she rose and instinctively carried the plate to the sink. She didn’t expect thanks, but he gave her a nod of acknowledgment—small, but it mattered.
“You’re not a guest,” he said at last, voice low and even.
Her heart skipped.
“I don’t mean that unkindly,” he added, uncrossing his arms and stepping forward. “But I won’t lie to you. You’re here because I made a choice. That means there are rules.”
She braced herself. There were always rules. And rules always came with punishments.
But Damian didn’t sound like he wanted control. He sounded like he wanted order.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“Rule one,” he began. “The west wing is off-limits. You don’t go near it. Not in daylight, not after dark. That part of the house doesn’t exist for you.”
Her curiosity flared instantly. The west wing. Forbidden. That always meant something. But she just nodded.
“Why?” she asked.
His eyes sharpened. “Because I said so. That’s all you need.”
The finality in his voice struck something in her chest. Not fear. Just the certainty that there were parts of this man, and this house, she wasn’t meant to touch.
“Rule two,” he continued. “No lies. I won’t ask you for your story. Not unless I need to. But if I ask a question, I expect honesty. Or silence.”
That part was harder. She had lied so often—out of necessity, survival, shame. Could she just... stop?
She hesitated. “What if I’m scared to tell the truth?”
His head tilted slightly. “Then tell me that instead.”
It was so simple. Too simple.
“Rule three,” he said, stepping closer, “Don’t mistake my kindness for softness. I’m not here to save you. I’m not your redemption. But while you’re under this roof, no one harms you. No one raises their voice at you. No one breaks you. Not even me.”
Bella blinked, suddenly aware of the stinging behind her eyes.
“I don’t know how to trust that,” she admitted, her voice cracking.
He nodded. “You don’t have to. Just don’t fight it.”
The silence returned, this time heavier. But it wasn’t cruel. It was careful.
“Is there a curfew?” she asked, trying to steady the moment with something lighter.
A shadow of a smirk ghosted across his lips. “Only if you’re planning on sneaking out.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.
“Good.”
---
The room he gave her was simple, but beautiful. Clean linens, soft lights, a window that overlooked the dark, misty garden. Bella sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the shadows. The hoodie he’d lent her still smelled like him—wood smoke, something dark and earthy, a hint of danger.
She curled into it like it was armor.
The night dragged on, and sleep refused to come. Her mind buzzed with questions she didn’t dare ask aloud. Who was Damian Wolfe? Why had he stopped for her on that road? What did he see in her—if anything?
And why did she feel safer here, in the house of a man she didn’t know, than she ever had in the arms of the one who claimed to love her?
She shifted under the blanket, turning toward the window. A faint light flickered outside—in the direction of the west wing.
Her breath caught.
What could be so important—so dangerous—that he’d rather threaten her than explain it?
Bella turned away from the window, pulling the blanket over her head.
She would not be the girl who ruined her second chance.
But still... the house was full of locked doors.
And one of them was already whispering her name.
---
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